


The Stampede

by flight815kitsune



Category: The Lion King (1994)
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Perspective, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Not book compliant, i'm not saying Scar was right but he did have a point about some things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27015832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: Scar contemplates his choices in a rocky canyon as the wildebeest stream below.
Kudos: 7





	The Stampede

It was all going according to plan.

Simba was in peril. Mufasa had leapt into a stampeding herd to protect his son. Zazu and the lionesses were far enough away that they would never reach the ravine in time. 

Perfect.

He does not regret it, when Mufasa gets tossed by the first wildebeest. He  _ savors _ it, the cut-off sound as the mighty Mufasa is knocked from his feet. How many times had  _ he _ made that same sound? How many times had one of the lionesses? Mufasa hadn’t been on a hunt in far too long, he hadn’t the slightest idea anymore on how to avoid hooves. Let him suffer the ache of bruised ribs. Let him feel a moment of fear and hope that the weight of the prey doesn’t crush him. 

The second time Mufasa is knocked from his feet is less satisfying. This was not to say that he found no satisfaction in it. It still sparked some dark joy in him, but the returns were quickly diminishing. It was like a joke one has heard too many times- the unexpectedness granted it something special that faded with each retelling.

Mufasa deposits Simba on a small cliff before being swept under the sea of horns and flesh. He loses sight of his brother’s tawny coat among the dust and surging dark coats. Simba calls out from his sanctuary, but he doesn’t spare a glance for the cub. Those wide eyes and trusting gaze weren’t something he was certain that he would be able to face. Not yet. He wouldn’t be able to do it himself- kill a cub scarcely out of his spots. If he fell to the wildebeests, so be it. If a crowned eagle spotted easy prey and swooped down from the great expanse of sky, so be it. If one of the hyenas ate him for lunch, so be it. 

It was hard not to sympathize with the hyenas, when one’s own stomach seemed constantly empty. The pride was thriving, and still Mufasa erred on the side of caution when he gave the go-ahead for hunts. They could not continue to survive on the limited amount of kills. In other lands, the hyenas ate what was left behind. With the amount of mouths to feed in their pride, there was never anything left for them. Even the lions at the bottom were lucky to get anything but hide and sinew. The lower ranking lionesses like Zira had not been able to carry cubs to term, and even Sarabi and Sarafina had only managed to have a single cub each. A pride could not survive like this. A pride cannot survive without cubs.

It is this thought that makes him finally glance at the cub cowering on the outcropping of stone. Simba was out of harm’s way, for now. He had moved quickly. He had thought fast when he scaled the dessicated tree. He had questions… He may not be the type of king his father was, if he was given the right education.

With Simba so young he  _ could _ be king regent until the prince came of age. It would be more difficult to plan around, and there would definitely be drawbacks. They may even appoint Sarabi to rule over him instead. But it would certainly buy more time before any rash decisions would need to be made. Simba’s birth had sped up his plans- he could not risk another heir over himself- but who was to say that he had to rush these things? He had waited this long, and with Mufasa out of the picture time would be less pressing. 

They may even be able to come up with an amenable arrangement and split the pride. Their numbers were too great to continue on without some sort of change, and Simba could go beyond the pridelands when he came of age. 

It is unfortunate that, by the time Mufasa is scabbling up the crumbling walls of the gorge, that he no longer desires to see him thrown. He did still possess a certain level of apathy as to if his brother reached the top of the rapidly crumbling stone but he does not, necessarily, wish him to fall. 

Mufasa scans the cliffs before him. As soon as he makes eye contact with Scar, his trajectory changes. 

Perhaps he could blame it on habit, on his own indecision, or even on the magnetism that Mufasa seemed to possess in abundance, but he gravitates to his brother’s new apparent route.

He had helped to take this pride. He and Mufasa had challenged the previous king, and they had  _ won _ . He hadn’t been in good standing in the pride in far too long. None of the lionesses that preferred him had, either, though whether that was the cause or effect for their placement in the pecking order he had no way of knowing for certain. With an act like this putting him back in good standing, he may be able to again have audience with his _ king _ . It’s a bitter thought, but he was nothing if not a realist. He could request a boon, for saving the life of the prince and king. He could live a life of comfort- at least temporarily. There was no way the hierarchy would change permanently. He would  _ not _ be king. 

Unless… he had been contemplating giving Simba his own pride just a moment ago, what was stopping him from doing the same? Why devote so much time and effort into trying to take over a pride that was going to fail if it continued? 

He stares, as Mufasa calls his name. “Scar!”

He does not move.

“Brother!” The desperation is audible in Mufasa’s tone. His hind legs desperately scrape the stone, nails seeking purchase on the rock face. “Help me!”

And he would have preferred a  _ please _ , but the window to act was closing so he makes his move. 

He digs his claws into the back of Mufasa’s paws, and there is fear in his brother’s eyes.

He can’t say he’s ever seen it there before.

It hadn’t been there when they had wandered off to places unsafe for a cub to tread when they were younger, when they had crossed rivers with barely-hidden scaled leviathans beneath the water. It hadn’t been there when they wandered in search of a place with no one but each other to rely on, spending nights under uncaring stars and hearing the far-off sounds of Jackals. It hadn’t been there a thousand other times when anyone with sense would have been terrified. 

The sight of it there now turns his stomach. 

Now, part of him  _ does _ still wish to throw him off the cliff. He has spent too long under his brother’s rule to forgive and forget.

A larger part just... doesn’t have the stomach for this sort of thing. 

He tries to get a mouthful of the scruff of Mufasa’s neck, the way a mother does when tending a disobedient cub. All he gets for his trouble is a mouth full of fur.

“Please-” The lone word is spoken, not screamed.

“I’m  _ trying _ !” He snaps before readjusting his grip. Teeth finally find skin, and Mufasa cries out in pain. He tries to scramble back, back to better footing and level ground. But to do so he has to abandon his grip on Mufasa’s paws, and the ground is already giving way. He can’t lift his brother’s weight alone, he can barely stop himself from being dragged over.

The irony is not lost on him, that had Mufasa allowed him a greater share that their own weights may not be so disparate.

Mufasa desperately tries to pull himself up the shifting stones.

He tightens his grip and the blood coats his tongue.

The stone gives way. 

It’s a blur of limbs and dirt and agony that moves faster than he can truly process. The impact with the ground is jarring, the blinding pain in his mouth is overwhelming, and the sound of hoofbeats leaves him desperately scrambling for some measure of safety.

It’s hard to breathe, even as the dust begins to settle. But if there was one thing that he had learned at a young age, it was that not moving meant death.

He gets to his feet, mouth oozing an unholy mixture of blood and saliva. A sore tongue pinpoints the problem- he has managed to break his left canine tooth. Lovely.

Likewise, his left forelimb strongly disagrees with his decision to put any weight on it.

The cacophony of competing pains also has a soloist vying for attention on his right ribcage- a set of deep scratches.

“Dad?” Simba’s voice carries in the fresh silence.

The lack of answer is telling.

“Dad, come on-”

Mufasa is bent at an odd angle and very,  _ very _ still. 

Simba nudges his father with a “You’ve got to get up-” and receives no reply.

“Dad, we need to go home.”

He takes a step forward towards the pitiful scene. He would limp home, Simba in tow, and tell the tale to the lionesses. 

There’s a screech, and the flutter of wings. Zazu cries out “Murderer!” and soars back the way he came. 

Simba looks his way and the cub’s face is the very image of fear.

There’s a distant roar that he can tell is Sarabi. 

He knows, without a doubt, how this looks.

There’s blood on his face, and not all of it is his own. His fang is embedded somewhere in the flesh of Mufasa’s neck. Mufasa’s claws had raked across his side. 

And Zazu had witnessed him stalking towards the prince. 

If he stayed his chances of not being torn to pieces by an angry mob of lionesses before he could share his side of the story were, unfortunately, very low. 

He runs.

At some point he becomes aware that the sounds of his own footfalls echoing off the walls of the gorge include the stutter of a limp. The sounds of his pursuers do not, even before they break the illusion with a cackle. Not the lionesses, then.

The rocks threaten to give out beneath his feet, but he presses on, squeezing through gaps that no fully grown male lion should have been able to fit through. He has no idea how the wildebeest hadn’t managed to bottleneck themselves here.

Hyenas are not choosy, and they would make sure he gave them one good meal even if he couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain. They would pursue him until they caught him, or until the lionesses caught up with them. They had a head start, so they would catch him. And Hyenas are not like lions- they don’t go for the kill before eating. Their jaws would crunch bone, their teeth would spill his entrails, and he would be consumed while he was still alive.

When he reaches the cliff, the choice between awaiting his fate at the top or taking his chances at the bottom was not a difficult one to make.

He falls, in his attempt to descend face-first. Catches himself on a flat section of rock only to lose his grip again. He slows his descent, but his claws are quickly being damaged by the rock face. A small overhang at the base of the cliff is enough to hide beneath as the echoing laughter gets louder. 

“Where’d he go?”

“Must’ve made a jump for it.”

“Ugh. Wanna wait and circle back? I don’t want to deal with those thorns for some stringy lion meat. Her Majesty only really chased us off to get to the kid. They’ll be running hack home to their big rock in the middle of everything but-” There’s a laugh. “I don't think the king’s going anywhere.”

The field of thorns is nearly impossible to traverse. Places to put down a paw are few and far between, and the gnarled, tangled growth twists back on itself and threatens to swallow him up with every misstep.

He has no idea how long he fights the brambles before finally, mercifully, reaching open ground. 

The open space is no kinder. The sun beats across his shoulders, the oppressive heat making it even harder to breathe. He knows, without a doubt, that if anyone picked up his trail there’d be no hiding it in the uncaring light. 

He walks.

He walks until he simply cannot draw breath enough to take another step. 

He doesn’t lay down so much as collapse.

The heat surrounds him from all sides- pressing down from the sky above and swallowing him from the baked earth below. 

The vultures would soon circle. 

  
  


He waits.


End file.
